


The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret

by SilentSinger



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Guilt, Symbolism, Violence, closeted mac, listen i should never be allowed free rein with a dream sequence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Mac seeks absolution.Written forAlways Sunny Rarepairs Two: Electric Boogaloo.





	The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rissalf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SunnyRarePairs2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SunnyRarePairs2) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> After having an extremely vivid sex dream about Charlie, Mac asks Father Mara to hear his confession, but they both end up getting turned on in the confessional.

Oftentimes there’s nothing like the familiar to ease you into a sense of security. Mac breathes deep and sighs heavily, the dank, yet comforting aroma of aged pine and stale, dusty air filling his nostrils. He absentmindedly chews at his fingernails, his eyes fixed upon a small spider making its home in the shadows of the confessional. _It’s easy for you, buddy. I bet you don’t even have dreams. Lucky bastard._

Throughout his life, he’s graced this very booth countless times, for such misdemeanours as wrath, envy (some dudes down at the gym – although it pains him to admit it – have substantially more impressive quads), obesity, more wrath, and that one time in his youth when he accidentally set fire to the neighbours’ cat. This, however, is unspoiled ground – virgin territory. Mac winces at the concept. He shuffles on the uncomfortable wooden seat, his recent transgression replaying in his mind – lips meeting in a crescendo of pent-up desperation, hands tearing at clothing and heated flesh pressed against flesh – as he wills himself not to think of it that way. _Please don’t think of it that way._ No matter. Soon enough, these impure impulses will be released within the confines of this cramped wooden cubicle, privy only to those blessed enough to assist. The Good Lord will forgive, and Mac will be absolved of his sins, for goddamn good.

_“Fuck, dude, I’m gonna-”_

The partition slides open with the anguished squeal of timeworn wood against wood, bringing Mac crashing down from his unwanted reverie with a colossal thump.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, what is your confession?”

Mac furrows his brow. It’s a voice weathered by years of substance abuse and sucking dick for crack, a voice that can only belong to a man who has – on at least one occasion – had his neck mistaken for a dog’s vagina.

“Rickety Cricket?” he questions. Surely the church hasn’t allowed him back after all this time? The last parish fundraiser didn’t quite hit its target, but Jesus, dude, there’s depths you just don’t goddamn plumb. “What the shit are you doing here?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Cricket says simply.

Mac wrinkles his nose and snorts. Regardless of who’s listening, he has to get this off his chest, one way or another – and it’s not like he could tell the Gang about the situation. At the very least, if Cricket is still living the high life, it’s more than probable he’ll not remember a goddamn word of this tomorrow.

“Bless me, Crick- I mean – Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.” _And five whole days since you felt that tight little asshole around your-_

“And what is your sin, my child?” Cricket replies, through what sounds like a thick mouthful of phlegm. Mac can swear he hears the snap of an ampoule being popped.

“I had... a dream. A sex dream.” Mac pauses to collect himself, the magnitude of his upcoming confession weighing down upon him like a two-hundred kilo bench press. He shuffles once more in his seat. “About Charlie,” he concludes.

There’s a beat before an unholy snort – like a piece of wet cardboard being ripped in two – cuts through the silence. Cricket clears his throat. “Okay, my son,” he says. “Lay it all down for me; only then can you be truly absolved of your sins.”

Mac grimaces. It’s now or never. And perhaps after asking for the Lord’s forgiveness, he’ll finally be able to stop beating off in the shower to the memory of that cursed dream. “Well, I was in this long hallway,” he begins tentatively. “It was kind of like a hospital except it was painted deep red. There were doors along each side, but every handle I tried broke off in my hand. I guess even dream-me has a superhuman power grip.”

****

There’s an aroma in the air of antiseptic and decayed woodwork, and somewhere far in the distance the deep, booming clamour of metal scraping against metal can be heard. The hallway is well lit, although there are no visible light sources, and the crimson walls surrounding him are bathed in an ethereal glow of burnt umber. Doors stretch down the length of the corridor in perfect symmetry like rows of yellowing teeth. Mac is filled with a sense of unease, combined with an incomprehensible feeling of familiarity and belonging.

He tries one of the nearest doors only to find the handle crumbles to pieces within his grip as if it were made of charcoal. He moves on, that shrill, echoing racket increasing in volume as it reverberates from the walls surrounding him and resonates deep within his mind – as if goading him into urgency, encouraging him to find the way to somewhere, anywhere.

****

“So, I move on and keep trying more doors,” says Mac. “They all have these little glass windows, and I can see inside the rooms but they’re all empty. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, until I find it.”

****

Time passes slowly here. Mac presses on through the neverending corridor, trying each door in turn, with each yielding the same outcome. After what could possibly be hours, Mac is about ready to concede defeat. What the fuck is he even doing here, anyway?

He becomes acutely aware of the sound of someone whimpering, almost lost within the bedlam of the metallic din that he’s now grown accustomed to. It sounds as though it’s coming from one of the nearby rooms. Without pause, Mac investigates his surroundings, looking through the window of this door and that, until he eventually reaches a room containing Charlie – who’s seated upon a dilapidated hospital bed, his body shaking with racking sobs.

****

Mac’s voice drops to a whisper. “He had his back to me, so I thought he was crying.” He takes a few seconds to compose himself, his pulse pounding in his ears as he recalls what happened next. “It turns out, that’s... not what he was doing.”

****

Mac enters the room, closing the door behind him. The cacophony of screeching metal halts instantaneously, and he’s left with nothing but a suffocating silence interspersed with the sound of Charlie’s ragged breathing. The walls of the room are painted a murky, faded green – reminiscent of Charlie’s apartment, and it’s hot as holy fuck in here, wherever here is.

As Mac approaches it becomes apparent that Charlie is not sobbing at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. His face is contorted into an expression of unhinged ecstasy, and he’s clutching the threadbare bedsheets with one hand, as the other vigorously works his cock.

****

“Charlie was pleasuring himself?” Cricket asks.

“Oh, he was going at it alright, and I can’t say that I blame him,” Mac replies, with a wistful sigh. “I saw his dong in the shower after gym class once, back in eighth grade. The guy was packing, even then. _This_ time, however. Mother of fuck – forgive me, Father Mara. Makes the dude from Thunder Gun look like a newborn baby.”

“Go on, my child,” urges Cricket, his voice lowered in awe. “Your salvation awaits,” he adds hastily.

****

Charlie acknowledges his presence with an uttered “Oh, hi Mac,” but doesn’t pause for a second – in fact as he meets Mac’s gaze, his pace increases. His eyes are wild and distant and his mouth is agape as coarse, laboured breaths evolve into gratified moans of shameless pleasure. Mac is rendered speechless. He shouldn’t be seeing this; this isn’t right. It’s as if he’s sauntered into a profound and intimate part of Charlie’s psyche; he doesn’t belong here. This isn’t right. This is... _fuck._

****

“Is it hot in here? I’m burning up like a guido in a tanning salon.” Mac exhales as he pauses for a moment’s respite. His hands are clammy and the boner he’s been trying to repress for the past ten minutes is about to cut a hole through his jeans, and he hasn’t even gotten to the meat of the story, yet.

“Mr. McDonald, the Lord and I are begging you to continue,” breathes Cricket.

Mac wipes his damp brow, and continues.

****

Unsure of how to handle the situation, Mac acts upon the first impulse that comes to mind – intent to put a stop to whatever the fuck this is – and slaps Charlie hard across the cheek.

Charlie’s eyes flash in a demented rage. He leaps from the bed like a coiled spring, naked from the waist down, his cock full and thick. He lunges at Mac, arms outstretched until Mac finds himself gasping for air with Charlie’s forearm compressing his windpipe as he’s rammed forcefully against the nearest wall.

“I asked you not to do that,” Charlie growls.

Mac opens his mouth to reply, to argue, to talk some goddamn sense into this motherfucker, but then Charlie’s lips are on his, his tongue is exploring Mac’s and his free hand is fumbling with Mac’s zipper and tearing at his pants.

****

“I don’t know what came over me, Father. But I let him. I fucking let him kiss me and then...”

“And then?”

****

It becomes a tug of war – a show of strength; a delirious battle of wills in which both men may either succeed, or die trying. Lips are bitten and flesh is grasped and clawed at with enough fervour to draw blood. Clothes are divested of with little grace and strewn aside as they collapse, naked, onto the decrepit old bed.

Charlie is beneath him now, red-faced and panting with exhilaration. The thick, dishevelled hair on his head and chest is darkened with sweat, and he’s giving Mac that same wide-eyed look of distant, unhinged longing that he’d had when Mac first found him here. To the victor go the spoils, and Mac is goddamn good and ready to claim his prize.

****

“It goes without saying that I won the fight,” says Mac, performing a rather dejected karate chop, complete with the prerequisite sound effects, to nobody in particular. He’d hoped that by now, he’d have felt a little better. Instead, he’s just counting down the hours until his next dalliance with his soap-slicked hand.

From Cricket’s side of the booth, the only sound that can be heard is his strained, uneven breathing.

****

Mac presses inside with a spit-slicked cock, marvelling at the exquisite warmth of narrow muscle clenching around him; Charlie is far tighter than any chick who’s ever granted him this concession. He’s overcome with an overwhelming notion of belonging once more, and as he begins to move, this room, this place, this whole fucked-up situation suddenly makes a lot more sense.

For once, somebody _needs_ Mac, wholly and completely. It’s a dizzying prospect; he could weep from the sheer significance of it – if he weren’t so intent on driving Charlie into the goddamn mattress. He truly loses himself, every fevered roll of his hips coaxing him ever closer to that sweet release. Charlie’s eyes are fixed upon his, his mouth is agape and gasping for air, and from it spills a litany of profanity and lewd, animalistic groans. His hands are grasping at Mac’s buttocks, fingernails digging into glute, urging him deeper, deeper still.

Mac is about ready to fucking blow, and what he needs now – more than anything in the world – is to take Charlie with him, piece by expletive-filled piece. Without a moment’s hesitation he licks his acrid, sweaty palm and gives Charlie a few frantic, firm strokes.

_“Fuck,_ dude, I’m gonna come,” Charlie breathes, punctuating with an ungodly moan.

Mac is lost, completely. The universe around him ceases to exist as they climax together, and suddenly they’re alone in an obsidian nothingness with only one another left to cling to.

****

His story told, Mac sighs with what he supposes should be relief, but the weight is still upon him – oppressive and unwieldy and larger than ever. Perhaps this is his penance, after all. It stands to reason that the Heavenly Father wouldn’t forgive this specific misdemeanour quite so easily.

“I feel better,” he says, although he doesn’t feel better at all. “Thanks, Father Mara. It was good of the church to allow you back after everything that’s happened.”

Cricket cackles with maniacal glee. “Oh, they didn’t. I slipped a mickey into Father Leonard’s altar wine. I’ve been pounding off in here the entire time. Whew!” he exclaims jovially. “I sure could use a smoke after that. You got any PCP?”

Mac cries out in frustration and storms from the confessional, kicking the door shut behind him. He needs a goddamn drink, and he needs a fucking shower.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I get flowery as shit.  
> PS: Surprise, bitch. ;)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Click here for a visual! :3](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/173648150437/charlies-eyes-flash-in-a-demented-rage-he)


End file.
